


Breathe, and count to three

by Stacicity



Series: triptych [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bickering, Blindfolds, Bondage, Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, boys talking about their feelings and being in love, handjobs, predicament bondage but it's v light, you all know the drill re this series by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29337021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: In between the mornings and the evenings, though, there are the days. Statements and filing cabinets, the half-imagined scuttling of spiders under the floorboards, worms between the pages. Fear coats the three of them like oil, and it’s all they can do to wash it off before the hourglass flips again and they’re heading back to the Institute.****Stress-relief, conversation, home-coming.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: triptych [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718092
Comments: 26
Kudos: 137





	Breathe, and count to three

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't strictly Martim, but it's written in the spirit of Martim week for today's prompt "Bondage"

These days, it seems they’re living for the mornings and the evenings. In the half-light before the alarms go off they’re a pile of sleepy, tangled limbs, rumpled sheets and mussed hair, Tim’s arm slung over Jon’s waist, Jon’s head on Martin’s chest, Martin’s fingers intertwined with Tim’s. In the evenings sometimes it’s board games or film nights, sometimes it’s long reruns of _Come Dine With Me_ or whatever David Attenborough documentary Martin’s found on iPlayer. Sometimes it’s just being with one another, Jon’s nose in a book and his legs over Martin’s lap, Tim hunting around for wherever he last put his reading glasses and humming absently to whatever music he’s put on - Nina Simone, Arlo Parks, Queen, Loyle Carner, Lizzo, Prince - 

In between the mornings and the evenings, though, there are the days. Statements and filing cabinets, the half-imagined scuttling of spiders under the floorboards, worms between the pages. Fear coats the three of them like oil, and it’s all they can do to wash it off before the hourglass flips again and they’re heading back to the Institute. 

Most of the time they muddle through. Martin’s hand is warm and soft, a secure enough anchor to keep Tim from spiralling upwards into his own head, into panic and fury and desperation. It pulls Jon from the depths of his concentration (sometimes accompanied by a cup of tea, a sandwich, a piece of chocolate) and out into the daylight. And between them, Jon and Tim are heavy enough to curtail Martin’s urge to retreat, to keep him present and with them where he’s wanted, where he’s needed. 

Nothing is perfect, though. Between the three of them they have poor timing. Tim glides into Jon’s office sometimes with a cup of coffee only to see the tea steaming at his elbow, placed there by Martin not ten minutes before. Tim used to fetch Sasha coffee in the morning, too, had her order memorised and an apparent preternatural sense for the days where she needed more sugar, something fruity, something decaffeinated. These days Sasha brings in a bottle of water and waves away anything else—caffeine keeps her awake, anything else is too sweet, hot drinks don’t sit well in her stomach—and so Tim is left standing helplessly with two coffees in his hand and nobody to whom to give them. 

Sometimes Jon wishes Martin was just a little less attentive, partly to keep himself from feeling quite so nannied (he’s a grown man, for God’s sake, he _can_ make his own tea), and partly to ward away the flashes he sees in Tim’s eyes of something like—well, he isn’t quite sure. Inadequacy, maybe. 

It’s the sort of thing he’d talk to them both about if it didn’t feel so puerile and odd to bring up a conversation about _tea_ when they have much larger worries on their minds. Still, he wonders who it was, once, that Tim fell so easily into taking care of, before him, before Sasha. 

There’s more, too. There’s the way that Jon still feels himself inclined to snap, to hide his work from Martin or Tim, to bury himself away in his office and resent any intrusion no matter how benign. Trusting is still an effort, a mantra, a routine he forces himself into like ill-fitting shoes. There’s the way that Martin grows conspicuously frustrated with how Jon and Tim pick at one another’s sharp edges, grows sharper himself by contrast and has Jon and Tim both rising in indignation at being babied or condescended to. There’s the pack of cigarettes in Jon’s desk that he knows Martin hates, but that he can’t keep himself from stealing into now and again, sometimes alone, sometimes with Tim, the two of them exchanging guilty looks between each drag as they pass the stub from hand to hand. 

There’s the day that Martin calls his mother and goes quiet and distant for the rest of the evening, eyes very far away. Tim’s attempts to lighten the mood are too sharp, Jon’s questions too blunt, and Martin ends up leaving Tim’s house to go home by himself that night. 

It comes to a head at the end of the next week, all three of them suffering through the monthly reviews that Elias imposes upon them, all of them left discomfited and wrongfooted by his superficial tact and his strange implications, the way he _looks_ at them. Tim sits stiff-backed at his desk when he leaves Elias’ office, dismissing Martin’s concern with a curt “yeah, not now”, and the tension lingers all the way to the end of the day. On the bus home he’s still drawn tight like wire, anger and fear and self-loathing wrapped around the three of them like a snare on a rabbit’s foot. 

Pathetic fallacy would hold that it should be a dark and stormy evening, but it isn’t—the moody sight of Tim smoking in the back garden is distinctly odd against the golden late-summer glow, the long shadow he casts on the grass. Jon watches from the kitchen window, hands in the sink with sud-studded mugs and plates, and leans his weight back into Martin’s warmth behind him. 

“He’ll be alright,” Martin promises, but it’s a platitude and they both know it. None of them are _alright_ , not really. 

“What can we do?” Jon asks, side-stepping the brooding fog of emotions to try and reach for something solid instead—action, intention, a forward march. As long as they have a direction, they can all walk together. Martin doesn’t reply and so Jon twists to look up at him. “Well, don’t you have a—I don’t know, a—”

“A magical depression-curing dildo?” Martin asks dryly and Jon flushes to his ears, embarrassed by the reproof more than the subject matter. 

“You said,” he replies, tight and uncomfortable, “that it calmed him down.” 

“Yeah. It does. It _can_.” Martin’s arms are still close around Jon’s waist, thumb rubbing soothingly at his left hip. “But I can’t just accost him with handcuffs and rope when he’s like this. If that’s the sort of release he wants, he needs to tell me.” 

Jon’s brow creases as he tries to imagine that conversation, the humility required to come forwards and ask for help, the _effort_ of it. “I don’t think I-” he stops himself, turns his head back to look at the lonely figure Tim cuts in the garden, the light glinting off his tight black curls until they turn almost coppery at their ends. “What if he doesn’t?” 

“Then he doesn’t,” Martin says simply. “And we can watch telly, or I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea, or we’ll just go to bed, or we’ll...God, I don’t know. Have sex without the bells and whistles. Cuddle. Whatever. But I’m not going to start up a scene without getting any indication that that’s what Tim wants, especially not if he’s upset; that’s a recipe for disaster.” 

Something in Martin’s voice suggests he’s speaking from experience. Jon reaches for a dish towel to dry his hands and lets the silent hang between them, heavy and inquiring, until Martin squeezes his hip gently and steps back. “I’ll tell you another time.” 

* * * * 

That night, Tim starts the evening curled on the sofa like a cat, limbs drawn in tight, resistant to any touch. Martin lets him be, for the most part, seeming to restrain himself to a hand on Tim’s shoulder whenever he passes him, and sliding the remote wordlessly towards him to let him choose what they want. Four episodes of _Famalam_ later Tim’s a little calmer, a little looser, a little more receptive when Jon pokes him in the ribs with one socked foot and squirms under his arm. 

“Alright?” Jon asks quietly and Tim nods as he turns his head to kiss Jon’s temple, smoothing a palm down his arm. 

“Yeah,” he whispers back. He’s lying. 

* * * * 

When Jon was little, his grandmother had always sworn by a warm drink and a good night’s sleep for most ailments. There wasn’t much that couldn’t be solved by drinking something hot and sweet and bedding in for an early night, after all, and most things looked better in the morning. 

Tim doesn’t look better in the morning. Hunched over his desk with his palms wrapped around a mug of tea he looks like a shock victim, drawn and weary, his eyes blank. He can barely even summon a smile for Sasha. 

“What did Elias _say_ to him?” Jon hisses to Martin as they walk back to the Institute from the nearby Pret, expressing his anger in a vindictive bite to an almond croissant. It rewards his efforts by spraying icing sugar liberally over his lips and his jumper and he groans, trying to brush it away and only succeeding in smearing it into the fabric. “ _Shit_.” 

“He won’t tell me,” Martin replies, watching as Jon slaps at his chest in an attempt to lift the sugar. “Do you want a napkin?” 

“I - yes, actually, thank you - just don’t remember seeing him like this. It’s one thing for him to be pissed off, but he looks so- so-” Jon trails off, words like _empty_ and _tired_ and _defeated_ spiralling around his head. Martin nods before he has to voice any of them, wrapping his fingers gently around Jon’s wrist and smoothing a thumb over his pulsepoint, brief and fond. 

“I know, love.” 

“If he won’t tell you and he won’t tell me then I’ll only end up asking Elias,” Jon mutters. “He can’t go around _doing_ this to people, let alone _my_ people. I mean- my team. Colleagues.” 

“Sure.” Behind the worry and the resignation Martin looks unbearably fond and Jon flushes again, powering through as best he can. 

“I should talk to him.” 

“Elias?” 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Jon.” 

They stop together outside of the Institute and look up at it—the stone facade, the unassuming brass plaque on the door, the iron-wrought balconies on the topmost levels where once, perhaps, this place was a house. The pedestrians bustling past them en route to the hotel and the _Pizza Express_ nearby barely give it a second glance. Martin shudders. 

“Probably not,” Jon agrees dully. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Martin promises and Jon’s head whip arounds so fast he swears, slapping his palm to it and feeling the nerves twinge.

“ _Elias_?” he croaks, aghast, and Martin shakes his head.

“Tim.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Fine.” 

“Right.” Martin’s fingers are soft and warm where they replace his, pressing into the space between his neck and his shoulder. Jon shivers. “Are you, though?” 

“I’m...no, I am. I’m fine,” Jon sighs. “I’m just worried about him.” 

“Me too.” 

There are boats on the river behind them. Jon fights the absurd urge to suggest that they leave, that they run back into the Institute and drag Tim out with them, jump onto one of the clippers and steam off somewhere else. Anywhere else. To the sea at one end, the Cotswolds at the other. 

“Shall we go in?” he says instead, and Martin gives him a wan smile. 

“Yeah. Let’s.” 

* * * * 

Jon isn’t privy to Martin and Tim’s conversation, whatever it is. The next time he passes by the kitchenette they all share he can see Martin catch Tim’s hand and interlace their fingers, bringing them to his lips. Tim looks a little bit like he might cry, but in typical form he brushes it off with some smart comment voiced through trembling lips. Jon doesn’t linger long; he gives them their privacy. 

* * * * 

“You shouldn’t be up here.” Sing-song, mocking, over-bright. Jon huffs out a breath and turns with one hand in his pockets to give Tim a sharp look as he steps out of the door and onto the roof, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. “Ooh. Bit nippy. You alright?” 

“Mm.” Jon shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette and rolling his eyes as Tim makes a show of tutting and clucking at him. 

“ _Really_ , Jon. Those things’ll kill you,” he huffs, even as he takes one when Jon offers him the pack. “Such an enabler.” 

“Oh, piss off.” Jon’s elbows are sharp even through Tim’s coat and he yelps, laughing and stumbling out of reach. “As if you’re not as bad as I am half the time.” 

“S’pose,” Tim lights his, pulling in a breath and tipping his head back to sigh it out at the sky. It’s a nice day, blue sky and fluffy clouds, but Tim’s right—the autumn is starting to set in, heat leaching out of the air with each dropped leaf. “It’s just a good excuse to get out.” 

“You could go for a walk,” Jon suggests, and Tim grins. 

“Yeah. But then I wouldn’t get to bother you, would I?” 

“Well, you have me there.” Jon sits down on the ledge at the edge of the roof and watches Tim kick a pebble and swing his free arm from side to side. Never still, Tim, not for long. And he’s got a good sense for when he’s being watched, so a few seconds later he looks up, blinking owlishly at Jon with exaggerated surprise. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. You just seem-” Jon waves a hand vaguely and Tim makes a face at him, screwing up his eyes. 

“God, don’t start, not you too.” 

“Well.” 

“Look, I’m—I’m okay, yeah? Nothing to worry about.” 

“Alright,” Jon says slowly. “Fine. It’s just that nobody would blame you if you weren’t.” 

Tim’s expression sharpens and he puts one hand on his hip, raising his eyebrows at Jon. “Leave it, would you?” 

“Conversation, communication, et-ce-te-ra,” Jon retorts in his best imitation of Tim’s expansive, performative manner. Tim scoffs. 

“Oh, very nice. Big talk for a man sitting on the edge of the roof.” 

“Why? Going to push me off, are you?” Jon sneers back. 

“I won’t have to. I’ll just wait for a big gust of wind, that’d probably do the trick.” Tim saunters over with exaggerated ease, shoulders dropped, neck loose, cigarette abandoned at his side. Standing over Jon like this he casts a shadow and Jon cranes his neck back to look at him. 

“Well?” he asks sharply when Tim just stands there. “Am I supposed to be intimidated?” 

Tim hesitates, visibly thrown, and then shakes his head. “Nah. By me? No.” Jon expects him to sit down next to him but instead Tim crouches in front, one hand on Jon’s knee for balance, looking up at him with an odd, searching expression. “What is it you’re after? My statement?” he asks mockingly, and Jon gives him the most unimpressed look he can muster. 

“Don’t be a prick, Tim.” 

“You’re the one asking all these questions-” 

“You’re the one who’s been moping around for the last two days,” Jon retorts and Tim purses his lips, stung, looking away to take a drag of his cigarette. Jon sucks in a breath, forcing himself back from the edge of the bickering that comes so _naturally_ to the two of them. “Look, I don’t– I don’t want your bloody statement. I just want to know you’re okay.” 

“I am. There you have it.” 

“Right.” Tim’s hand is still on his leg. Jon puts his hand on top of it. “I’m not,” he adds casually, and Tim frowns up at him, turning his hand palm-up under Jon’s to hold onto him. “I mean, I—I’m coping,” Jon adds, shrugging. “More or less. You help. Martin helps. But there’s only so _okay_ any of us can be in a place like this.” 

Tim nods, pressing his lips together tightly, and says nothing. He’s holding onto Jon’s hand tightly, knuckles paler than the surrounding skin, and Jon squeezes back. “Anyway. What would help me is knowing what might help you. How we can help each other,” he prompts. “And Martin too.” 

“He always says that helping me helps him,” Tim mutters, rolling his eyes. “You know him, he likes- he likes to take care of people.” 

“Do you mind it?” 

“Sometimes,” Tim shrugs. “Sometimes I do, yeah. I’m the one who’s supposed to—it’s like—ugh. I don’t like feeling incapable. And he’s so _understanding_ and _caring_ and sometimes I just want to give myself a kick and make myself get up so he doesn't have to waste time looking after me. It doesn’t help being reminded of how useless I can be about this sort of thing.” 

Jon nods, letting that percolate for a while until Tim winces and shifts his weight, pulling himself upright to sit on the ledge next to Jon instead. “Ow. Calves.” 

“I thought you were used to being on your knees.” 

“Oh, _well done you_ ,” Tim grins though, leaning in to kiss Jon’s cheek. “I’m not used to squatting on roofs, believe it or not. I leave all the crouching and sneaking to you.” 

“Har har,” Jon finishes his cigarette and flicks the butt aside. “So. What can I do? Aside from giving you a kick when Martin won’t.” 

“That might help, actually,” Tim smiles wryly. “Even if it’s just kicking me into getting out of my own head.” 

“I can do that.” 

It’s chilly out on the roof but they stay a little longer, fingers intertwined, staring out together at the gleaming strip of the river leading all the way home. 

* * * * 

The request, when it comes, isn’t dramatic. Tim bumps his hip against Martin’s as they get home, holds out his hands for Martin’s coat when he shrugs it off. “Give it here, I’ll hang it up.” 

“Thanks.” Martin tilts his head, eyeing Tim askance for a moment, and Tim just smiles and nods to the stairs. 

“Go on, sit down.” 

Martin does, and Jon watches from the threshold as Tim crouches down again, unlacing Martin’s shoes and pulling them off to set them aside in the hall. Martin’s hand settles into Tim’s hair and he tilts his face up, expression impossibly fond. 

“Miłości moja,” he sighs, and as Tim leans his cheek into Martin’s palm Martin’s posture shifts, his back straightening a little as if he’s freed himself of more than just the weight of his coat. “Alright. Why don’t you go and shower, hm? Wash the day off.” 

Tim does, uncharacteristically quiet as he heads upstairs, and Martin’s gaze shifts to Jon where he’s taking his own shoes off.

“What?” Jon asks when he feels the weight of Martin’s eyes linger on him, and Martin just smiles.

“Just wondering if you had anything to do with this.” 

“I thought you said you’d talk to him,” Jon replies and Martin nods. 

“I did. It went—I mean, it didn’t go _badly_ , but he wasn’t exactly-” Martin breaks off, chewing his lower lip, “ready to let go of anything yet.” 

“We had a chat.” Jon presses himself onto his tiptoes to kiss Martin’s cheek. “So what now?” 

Martin looks contemplative, catching Jon around the waist to keep him close. “Now I take him out of his own head a bit. We can go upstairs, if you’d like us out the way, or-”

“I’d like to watch.” The speed of Jon’s response startles even him and he coughs, looking away. “I, er—well, it’s—I get into my head as much as Tim does, sometimes. I want to see what helps, what works.”

Martin nods slowly and Jon shrugs, leaning his weight against Martin’s chest until Martin shifts his stance to keep them both upright, arms close and secure around him. “I like watching.” 

“I know.” Martin holds Jon for a moment more, breathing in, breathing out, before stepping back. “I like it when you watch. But first, I’ll put the kettle on.” 

* * * * 

It’s not—Martin tells him over the clink of mugs and the sound of the fridge door—about fucking the tension out of Tim. Not always. Every now and again Tim gets so wound tight he needs a harsher form of release, needs to be put somewhere where he can’t hear his own thoughts, but tonight won’t be like that. 

“There’s lots of ways of asking for things,” Martin murmurs, passing Jon a cup of tea and folding his palms around his own. “It used to be that Tim would just get cheekier and cheekier until he was just…I don’t know. Pushing buttons. Waiting for me to do something about it. Eventually I told him that that wasn’t going to be how we did things. If he wants to be taken care of, he needs to find a different way of telling me that.” 

“And that made him less cheeky, did it?” Jon asks dryly and Martin laughs. 

“God, no. But now when we bicker it’s because he’s unhappy with _me_ , not with himself. I don’t want to be pushed into hurting him, you know?” Martin’s mouth twists unhappily. “Sorry, I’m explaining this all wrong.” 

“No, I-” Jon takes a sip of his tea and sets the mug down. “I think I understand. He wanted you to hurt him, so he was trying to give you an excuse.” 

“Right.” Martin sighs. “And whips and chains aren’t always the answer. Which isn’t to say that it’s not a good form of catharsis, or that sometimes we won’t do that. I just prefer to talk about it first. Check in with him, make sure he knows that he’s not being punished for being _him_. Anyway. The point is, I’m not going to hurt him tonight, not like that.” 

“Alright.” Jon looks up at the ceiling at the sound of the bathroom door creaking open upstairs. “Can I help?” 

“Of course, if you’d like,” Martin replies immediately. “How much would you like to be involved?” 

“I’m not sure.” Jon picks up his mug again, listening to the sound of footsteps over their head. “I’d just like to help.” 

“Okay. I think we can figure something out.” 

* * * * 

When Tim comes downstairs it’s to Jon and Martin sitting on the sofa. He has the holdall in his hands and he waves it cheerfully at Martin, beaming past the banked tension in his eyes. There’s still a few beads of water on his shoulders and his chest, his bottom half covered by pyjamas. His shoulders are tight. Jon has a sudden, strange urge to pull him close and loosen them himself. 

“Thought you might like this?” Tim nods to the holdall as he puts it down. 

“Thank you.” Martin smiles back at him, reaching out a hand. “Come here, please.” Tim goes, and Jon watches as he settles to his knees between Martin’s legs, hands folded in his lap, spine straight. “I thought I might try and give you a bit of quiet, tonight,” Martin says softly. Tim’s expression flickers, a complicated passage of emotions over his handsome face, before he just nods. 

“Unless you need something more?” Martin prompts, and Tim closes his eyes. 

“Whatever you want.” It could be so flippant, breathy and nonchalant. Tim makes it sound like a prayer. 

Martin smooths his palms over Tim’s shoulders and squeezes gently, looking over at Jon with soft eyes. “Would you fetch me some rope out of the bag, please?” 

The rope is soft and dark blue, sliding over Jon’s fingers as he pulls it out and uncoils it until it spills over his hands. He rubs a bit of it between finger and thumb, listening to the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, of Tim’s even breaths, his own footsteps on the carpet of the living room as he moves closer. 

“How would you like him?” Jon asks, forcing his voice steady, watching Tim lift his head a little with interest at being spoken _about_ , not to, turning to grin at Jon over his shoulder. 

“Gonna tie me up in knots?” he teases and Martin tuts, reaching out to take Tim’s chin and turn his face back towards him. 

“Hush. Never you mind what we’ve got planned,” he says firmly. _We_. Jon’s hand tightens and loosens against the rope and Martin looks up at him, eyebrows raised in silent question until Jon nods. He’s fine. He’s captivated, really, by the rise and fall of Tim’s shoulders, the motion of his throat as he swallows. 

“Shuffle back a bit,” Martin adds, reaching out for the rope to take it from Jon as Tim moves a little further away and lets Martin stand. “Right. We’ll need - oh.” Jon holds up the blindfold with a faint smile and Martin nods, exasperated and affectionate all at once. “Yeah. That. Exactly. Would you do the honours?” 

That’s easy, at least. Jon crouches behind Tim and loops it around his head, tying it close while Tim huffs out a laugh. “Get you, stealing Marto’s thunder,” he murmurs. 

“Shush.” Jon presses his lips to Tim’s shoulder and Tim hums, letting his head fall back a little, inhaling deeply and letting it out again. “Alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” Jon looks up at Martin expectantly and Martin kneels down at Tim’s side, taking the end of the rope. 

“Alright. So, when you’re tying someone up,” he says softly, “you want enough give in the rope for two fingers underneath. Make sure you’re not cutting off the circulation.” 

“Pins and needles aren’t sexy,” Tim puts in helpfully and Martin rolls his eyes, giving Tim’s hair a little tug. 

“I thought I told you to hush?” 

“Tired of my dulcet tones already?” Tim shifts his weight on his knees a bit. He’s half-hard under his pyjamas and Martin drops his gaze down to his thighs, considering, before standing and returning to the holdall. 

“Alright. If you need something else to focus on,” he says mildly, returning and sitting down cross-legged this time. The clamps in his hand are silver, catching the light as Martin lifts them. “Deep breath,” he adds. Tim obeys hastily, but he still yelps when the clamps find his nipples, squirming a little and hissing out a breath through his teeth. “Now hush,” Martin repeats, his tone low and almost soothing. “You just settle down. Jon and I are talking.” 

Right. Yes. That’s what they’re doing. Jon swallows, watching Martin pick up the end of the rope again and tap Tim’s wrists until he lifts his hands, positioning them palm-up, wrists together. “So, like I said,” Martin looks back to Jon. “Two fingers.” 

Jon nods. The tie Martin guides him through is nothing overly complicated, a series of loops up Tim’s forearms to his elbows, keeping his arms together. The more knots settle against Tim’s skin, the calmer he seems to get, his breathing evening out. 

“Lovely,” Martin says softly once he’s talked Jon through tying off the rope at the end, testing its give and nodding, satisfied. “Just one more thing, then.” 

One more thing turns out to be a pair of headphones that Jon recognises from the mornings Tim spends dancing around the kitchen, heavy and well-padded. “Noise-cancelling,” Martin tells Jon with a smile. “Tim? Alright down there?” 

Tim hums and Martin gives the chain connecting the tugs a gentle tug. Tim groans rather than yelping this time, back arching, though he keeps his arms lifted in front of them. “A verbal response, if you wouldn’t mind,” Martin prompts, and Tim licks his lips to wet them. 

“Yes, Martin,” he breathes. 

“Good. You know how this goes, kochanie—we’re not going anywhere. You just say the word if it gets too much. Okay?” 

“Yes, Martin,” Tim repeats, soft and low, and Martin presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Good boy.” The headphones are switched on, Martin settling them carefully onto Tim’s head and letting out a slow breath. “Okay.” 

Jon looks askance at the little set-up, running his fingers one way along the carpet, then the other. “What’s the idea behind all this?” he asks finally. “The blindfold I get, but his hands-” 

Martin nods. “It’s, er—well, I mean, it’s pretty much one of the gentlest forms of predicament bondage out there. Which reminds me-” he turns, reaching for the coffee table to retrieve his now-lukewarm mug of tea, settling it gently on Tim’s palms. Tim jumps, startled, and Martin keeps a close grip on the handle until Tim settles again, steady when Martin lets go of the mug and leaves it balanced on his hands. “There. Now he’ll keep steady.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, you try it,” Martin replies with a smile, watching Jon lift his hands palm-up into the same position as Tim. “It’s alright for a minute or two, but after a while it’ll hurt like hell.” 

Sure enough it isn’t long before Jon can feel the tension seeping into his wrists and his shoulders, an ache that settles there as he grimaces and drops his hands, shaking them out. “Right. I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt him?” 

“Well, not with a whip. It’s just something external to focus on,” Martin replies. “It’s—it’s about clearing his head. He gets to let go of whatever else is floating around in there and just focus on the quiet and the dark, and his arms, and his nipples.” 

“And that works?” 

“It does. I mean, he sleeps like a baby afterwards, so.” Martin gives Jon a slightly helpless shrug. “It’s not always this. Sometimes it’s just giving him orders for a few hours, you know? Having him kneel and be quiet, or- or-” he makes an awkward little gesture towards his lap and Jon laughs outright, unaccountably charmed. 

“Sorry—is that sign language for Tim sucking your cock?” 

“It is, actually,” Martin grumbles. “Thanks for asking.” 

“Something else to focus on?” 

“Exactly. Pain in some cases, or being still, or- God, I don’t know. Not coming until I tell him to. Something else. Anything else.” 

Jon nods. There’s another length of rope on the floor next to him that he winds around his fingers thoughtfully, in and out, cat’s cradle. “I can see the logic. Maybe—maybe even the appeal.” 

“Yeah?” Martin smiles at him. “Well. If you ever want me to blindfold you or tie you up a bit, you can just say the word. Or if you wanted to try tying Tim up, I’m sure he’d be thrilled.” 

“Do you think so?” Jon asks lightly, and Martin’s nod is nearly instantaneous. 

“Yeah, I do. I’m pretty sure that’s half the reason he bickers with you so much. He wants to see if you’ll do anything.” 

“Other than kick him out of bed, you mean?” 

“Other than that.” 

Tim’s hands are starting to tremble, his brow furrowed with concentration. The headphones must make him a little less aware of his own noises and he’s making choked little sounds of effort, shoulders tight and tense as he tries to keep the mug steady. 

“How long has it been?” Jon asks, wincing in sympathy, and Martin reaches for his phone. 

“About five minutes. It’ll feel like he’s holding a ton by now.” There’s sweat beading at Tim’s brow. Martin’s fingers twitch like he’s tempted to wipe it away before he restrains himself. “We’ll give him a bit longer before I give him something else to think about. He’s doing very well.” 

Jon hums, still playing with the rope, watching Tim’s wrists shake and his the muscles of his shoulders bunching and unclenching, tension strung from his wrists to his spine. “There’s a lot less sex in this than I expected,” he says finally and Martin splutters, taken aback, looking at Jon with surprise. “Well,” Jon shrugs. “Half the time you don’t get undressed until the end, if at all.” 

“That’s not always what it’s about,” Martin says after taking a moment to compose himself. “Release isn’t always...you know. _Release_. And I like concentrating on Tim. Sometimes that means not concentrating on me so much.” 

“But you’re still…”

“Turned on? Yeah. I am.” Martin laughs. “And I definitely will be in a minute or two. But this sort of thing isn’t always about fucking or being fucked.” 

That makes sense too. It’s oddly comforting hearing it said out loud, that Jon isn’t considering encroaching on something that might make any other demands of him other than those he’s willing to give. Which he knew already, he did, but—all the same. The confirmation is appreciated. 

“Alright?” Martin asks gently, reaching out to take the rope from Jon’s hand. Jon nods, catching Martin’s wrist and pulling him back for a brief, soft kiss, just a quick press of lips. Martin softens into it for only a moment before he pulls back, beaming. “Yeah, me too. Give me a moment.” 

He takes the handle of the mug first, lifting it from Tim’s joined palms and setting it safely to the side. Tim’s arms stay as they are, wavering a bit until Martin sets his hands underneath to steady them, dropping a kiss to one palm, then the other. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tim whispers - it’s not clear whether he means to or not - and Martin shushes him gently. 

“Jon, poppet, would you hold his hands up for him?” Jon does so, feeling the rabbit-fast beat of Tim’s pulse as he curls his fingers around his wrists, the way his hands are shaking. Martin moves behind Tim, wrapping a secure arm around his waist and kissing the side of his neck. 

“Fuck,” Tim repeats unsteadily, “Martin-” he’s louder than Jon thinks he means to be, half-shouting out into the silence, and Martin rubs Tim’s hip soothingly. He lets his fingers creep up Tim’s neck to the headphones, lingering there until Tim nods and Martin slips them free. “Alright, sweetheart?” he whispers and Tim nods again, shivering against his grip. 

“Yes, I-I...argh...fuck, it hurts-”

“I know, love. You’re doing very well, you’re being so good for me. Just a little longer, hm? Jon will help you.” Tim groans but he nods his head almost frantically, whimpering when Martin’s hand slips lower, under the waistband of his pyjamas. 

“Oh, God- _Martin_ -”

“We’ve got you.” Martin props his chin onto Tim’s shoulder, the movement of Tim’s pyjama bottoms almost hypnotic as Martin strokes him steadily, Tim’s head falling back as his hips jerk into the contact. “You look so beautiful like this, you know.” On the next stroke he pulls Tim’s cock from his pyjamas altogether, hard and leaking at the tip. Tim’s hands are still shaking in Jon’s grip. 

He’s getting almost used to this, to holding Tim’s hands, his wrists, his arms, to holding him steady while Martin shakes him apart. It’s nice. It’s almost familiar. Jon tightens his grip, holding Tim fast, and Tim cries out, an odd choked tone to his voice. Jon can see dampness against the blindfold and he blinks, alarmed.

“ _Martin_ -” he starts and Martin just nods, holding Tim flush against his body, bracketed between his knees. 

“I know. It’s okay. Tim, why don’t you say thank you to Jon for helping you?” 

“Thank you, Jon,” Tim whispers. He sounds absolutely wrecked and the sound of it sends an odd, confused shiver down Jon’s spine, fascinated and enthralled and terrified all at once. His own palms feel a bit damp, but he doesn’t think Tim will notice. 

“Good boy,” Martin flattens his palm against Tim’s stomach and increases his pace, thumbing across the tip of his cock. “Jon - when I say-” he nods down pointedly towards the clamps on Tim’s chest and Jon raises his eyebrows, surprised but not reluctant, reaching out towards the chain. 

“Just pull. Gently. One at a time,” Martin murmurs, and when he nods again Jon sucks in a breath and pulls one of the clamps free. Tim’s back arches and he makes a broken, choked noise, tearful and pained and rapturous. 

“ _Fuck_...please...pleasepleaseplease, Martin-” 

“Go on,” Martin whispers to Tim - to Jon - and when Jon pulls the second clamp free Tim groans and comes, covering Martin’s hand and his own belly. His arms are still outstretched. Martin shushes Tim, scattering kisses over his jaw and his cheek. 

Time creeps in slowly. Tim’s wrists are undone, and Martin positions Tim - still blindfolded - between his legs while he sits on the sofa, rubbing feeling back into his wrists and his arms and his shoulders and keeping up a soft mantra of praise. Tim’s head lolls forwards a bit as he nuzzles into Martin’s thigh, mouthing into the fabric of his trousers almost as if he’s not entirely aware of what he’s doing. 

When Jon reaches out to catch one of the tears drying on Tim’s cheek, Tim turns his head and presses his lips to Jon’s fingers instead, just a quick kiss, nuzzling against his hand next. Jon feels so protective, so tender, that he thinks he might burst. It’s alright, though. It’s alright. He leans against Martin’s side and watches the last vestiges of tension leave Tim’s expression until he’s kneeling silent and still, his breathing even. 

“Is he asleep?” Jon whispers after a few minutes and Martin smiles, shaking his head. 

“Not yet. Are you, love?” 

Tim lets out an exaggerated snore in response and Jon rolls his eyes, tangling his fingers into Tim’s hair and scratching over his scalp until he settles. 

“Prat.” 

“So rude to me,” Tim sighs, clearly going for a mocking tone but falling somewhere exhausted instead. “I think you should carry me to bed in recompense.” 

“Mm. Good luck with that,” Jon replies, thumbing over Tim's cheekbone. “How do you feel?” 

“Sore. Tired. Good.” Tim turns his head towards Martin’s knee again, humming. “You alright, Martin? Anything I can do?” 

“Not tonight,” Martin says with palpable fondness and Jon frowns, looking askance at him. 

“Hope that’s not on my account?” 

“It’s not,” Martin promises. “Honestly? I’m pretty wiped out too. It’s been a hell of a week.” 

Jon has to admit that he’s not wrong there, but he’s in no immediate hurry to move. It’s comfortable on the sofa, more so with Martin’s arm around him and Tim’s hand curled around his ankle, the three of them bound up together. The soft kiss that Martin presses to his forehead feels like a benediction. Tim’s weight against his leg as he shifts to sit between them feels like home. 

Jon breathes in, breathes out, and privately hopes that whatever the days might be, that each and every one of them ends like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill! Kudos & comments feed my filthy ways. [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and shout at me about JonMarTim or anything else. Prompts, ideas, suggestions, feedback, conversation, communication, et-ce-te-ra.


End file.
